


Three Months

by hutchabelle



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Engagement, F/M, Family Issues, Hospitalization, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark Smut, POV Peeta Mellark, Physical Therapy, Smut, Veterans, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchabelle/pseuds/hutchabelle
Summary: Peeta Mellark's had a really bad year. Discharged from the military for medical reasons, he returns home with an amputation, PTSD, and a broken engagement. Finnick Odair, his best friend, is determined to get Peeta off the couch and back into the world. When Peeta's regular physical therapist has a family emergency, he spends the week's sessions with Katniss Everdeen, who pushes him hard enough that he sees the merits of reconnecting again.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 324
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	Three Months

**Author's Note:**

> Early in 2019, @fandomtrumpshate encouraged creators to offer works in exchange for donations to organizations that support anti-hate and anti-discrimination actions. I offered two auctions for Everlark stories. This is the first, a 10,000+ word story for @iwishicouldread247 on tumblr. Thank you for bidding on my auction and providing the following prompt. You are awesome.
> 
> Prompt: Peeta has been home for a year. His time in the service left him with nightmares and a prosthetic leg. The only thing he's got going for him is the beautiful, grey eyed physical therapist that won't stop pushing until he's back on his feet. Katniss feels drawn to the sometimes surly vet and before long she finds herself head over heels not knowing if he could ever feel the same.

_“Mellark! Cover me!”_

_Peeta glances to his left and ducks as bullets whizz over his head. Crack, crack, crack! As soon as they hit, he braces his saw against his shoulder and squeezes off a round at the cleft in the mountainside where enemy combatants are raining down hellfire on his unit. The gun recoils and slams into his shoulder repeatedly, but he keeps shooting._

_It’s loud—so loud that he almost misses the chop of helicopter blades in the distance. The exfil is only a few seconds away, and he can’t wait to get the hell out of harm’s way and back in the barracks on base. He’s been in Afghanistan for far too long, and the only thing he wants is to make it home safely as soon as his enlistment ends in three months._

_Three months. That’s all he has to survive before he can ship back home and use the GI Bill to go to college, something he’d never be able to do without the financial help of the government that didn’t mind exchanging his body and life for an education. Three months for a four-year degree and a lifetime without student loans. Three months, three months, three months._

_The chopper lands behind him, and his squad leader’s voice crackles in his ear. “Move out!” Boggs yells. “Exfil now!”_

_Peeta secures his weapon and runs. The chopper’s only a few hundred yards away, but it seems to take forever to cover the space._

_“Faster,” he mutters as he sprints across the rocky sand._

_He’s so close, almost there when his left leg crumples under him. He yells and clutches his thigh as he rolls. Something’s wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong, he realizes when his hand comes away covered in blood and his shredded fatigues flap over his torn boot._

_He doesn’t have time to process. The team members behind him grab him as they run past and pull him, screaming in agony, to the helicopter. As soon as they’re secured, they’re in the air, leaving the dogfight behind._

_“Stay with me, Mellark,” Boggs barks, but he’s already sinking under. “Mellark! Mellark!”_

* * *

_Mellark, Mellark, Mellark, Mellark, Mellark…_

“Shut up,” he grumbles and slaps a swipe to his right. The noise continues, and it takes several more seconds before he can shake off the haze enough to recognize the blare of his alarm. Cursing, he smacks his phone and knocks it off the coffee table. He’s fallen asleep on the couch again, too exhausted and pissed off to drag himself to the bedroom where his mattress is too soft and it feels wrong to wake up alone instead of surrounded by his unit.

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles and drags his hand down his face. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, and his stubble scratches his palm as he wipes drool from his chin and groans. It’s been three months since he got this apartment. Three months since he’s been deemed healthy enough to get the fuck out and live on his own.

His whole life seems to be lived in three month increments now. Three months after he lost his leg, his enlistment should have officially ended, but he was still in rehab then. Still laid up in bed, recovering from his wounds, and cursing the world for his shitty luck, Peeta celebrated three months fighting phantom pain from the knee down and wondering if he’d ever walk again. Another three months passed, and he was half a year past the attack and back in the States. His body was just starting to heal enough to think about the next steps. Three months later, it had been three-quarters of a year with half a leg, and he was fighting depression, PTSD, anxiety, panic attacks, and an uphill physical battle. He was fitted for a prosthetic, and he accepted he’d need persistent therapy to adjust to his new life.

Three months later. That comes up over and over. A year now—four times three months—and he can’t believe he’s no closer to a better life than he’d been when he lost his leg. No happy homecoming, no college, no future, and no fucking leg. The army was supposed to give him more, not leave him with less.

“Fuck this shit,” he growls and rolls onto his side away from the light slanting through the blinds. If he can just fall back asleep, maybe the throbbing headache from his hangover will go away. Maybe if he slept for three months.

He’s just slipped back into a blissfully dreamless slumber when the world explodes around him. Peeta releases a string of expletives when he hits the floor, barely avoiding the sharp corners of the coffee table as he hurled himself off the couch. He covers his head with his arms and waits for the shooting to stop. It takes longer than it should for him to realize no bullets are flying. It’s just loud knocking on the door.

“Open up, Mellark! You’ve got PT today.”

Peeta shakes his head and blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light. “Fuck off, Odair,” he yells. “I’m not going.”

“The hell you aren’t,” Finnick barks. “I’m giving you 20 seconds, and then I’m coming in.”

“Leave me the hell alone, you jackass,” Peeta roars and scratches his crotch. Briefly, he curses his lack of morning wood. His ego rapidly deflates as reality invades his half-awake state. He hasn’t been horny in weeks. Not even copious amounts of hard-core porn have helped. He’s been so desperate, he even tried gay porn—girls, of course—and still nothing.

“Three…two…one…” A key rattles in the lock, and Finnick, his best friend and fellow veteran, swings the door open and shakes his head. “Well, at least you have pants on this time.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Tempting, but no,” Finnick quips with a grin. “I know I’m sinfully pretty, but you’re going to have to work a little harder if you want to get me into the sack.”

“Not even if you grew tits overnight.”

“I’m talented, but I can’t grow body parts.”

“Neither can I,” Peeta grumbles and waves at his lower half. “If I could, I’d have already done it.”

Finnick shoots him a sympathetic look, but Peeta doesn’t want anything of it. He raises both middle fingers and holds them up, so his friend won’t miss the gesture.

“The bus leaves in twenty minutes. I’d suggest a shower. You smell like a distillery.”

“Whiskey doesn’t mind a missing leg.”

Finnick glares at him, and Peeta flips him off some more before clamoring onto the couch and flopping against the cushions.

“You know, if you’d quit with the world’s biggest pity party, you might realize the nobody else really minds a missing leg either. Whiskey isn’t your only friend, dickhead.”

Peeta laughs wryly. “I couldn’t give a fuck less if I have any friends.”

“Keep it up, and you won’t,” Finnick snarls. “Get your ass off the couch and get in the shower. If you don’t, I’m going to throw you in there. You’ve got PT today, and I’m done listening to you whine and bitch.”

“Yeah, whining and bitching. It’s nothing. No excuse to be pissed off if you lose half a leg. Still got from the knee up. What do I have to complain about?”

Finnick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes before he speaks softly and slowly. “Peet, you had a shitty thing happen to you, and it’s not fair. None of this is fair. None of what you’re going through is fair. None of it, but you’re not dead.”

“No, just a cripple.”

“That’s what you call yourself. That’s not what you are, and that’s not what I call you.”

“Yeah, you call me asshole.”

“I call you my best friend, and I’m not going to sit back and watch you sink further into this…whatever funk this is.”

“Finn—”

“No,” he snaps. “Get off your ass and get in the shower. I’m taking you to PT.”

“My therapist is a dick.”

“So are you. Perfect match.”

“I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Peeta flips his friend the bird and wishes he had something more extreme. Three times in two minutes seems to lessen the power of what should have been a way to chasten his friend, but Finnick doesn’t even bother to look irritated about it. Furious, Peeta and grabs his crutches from the side of the couch. “Don’t follow me.”

“You know I can’t stay away from your sweet ass, Mellark. Hell, even Annie wants some of that booty.”

“Annie can have everything I’ve got every day,” he offers, only half-joking. “Redheads are animals in bed.”

“Keep your paws off my woman, you ass.”

“Just let her know I’m willing to show her what a real man can do when she gets tired of hanging out with you.”

“This is why you don’t have more friends!”

Despite himself, Peeta’s grinning by the time he gets to the bathroom, but that lasts as long as it takes for him to struggle into the shower and flop onto the plastic chair he has to use now to complete his hygiene routine. No more standing in the shower. He’d tried it once and fell so hard, he thought he’d broken his tailbone. It was just one more thing in a long list he’d never do again. It was also humiliating. Humiliating to crawl on his hands and knees, dripping wet, and call his best friend who found him sobbing and broken on the floor.

Sighing, he adjusts the water temperature and grabs the shampoo. Even taking a shower is a chore now, but the warm water eases the tension in his shoulders and the pain in his head. Water drips from the stump at his knee, and he grimaces at the rawness of his wound. Even a year later the scar tissue is a red, mottled mess that makes him gag. He’ll never get used to it, he knows, but he longs for a day when he doesn’t feel like his insides are being ripped apart when he’s faced with his broken body.

It seems like a year should be enough to adjust to his new normal, but then again, three months was too long to stay safe in a war zone.

He soaps up and rinses. The last thing he needs is Finnick barging in on him when he’s naked. If he isn’t out in two minutes, that’s the next step. He hisses as phantom pain sweeps over him. Breathing deeply, he wills it to pass before he turns off the shower and towels dry.

“Seven minutes!” Finnick calls from the living room. “Don’t make me come in there.”

“You know, I can send you a nude if you want. Might be easier than coming over here all the time and pretending to harass me just so you can see my junk.”

“I already have a spank bank of you, Mellark. I use it to get it up for my girl.”

“Okay, that’s just gross,” Peeta yells. “At least let her see them too. Let her know what she’s missing when she hangs out with you.”

“Wouldn’t want to scare her.”

Peeta grimaces and shakes his head. If he didn’t know how deeply his friend loved his wife, he’d wonder about some of the things he says, but the Odairs had one of the best military marriages he’s ever witnessed, and he’s seen a lot. They’re totally devoted to each other through deployments and everyday life. If it wasn’t so fucking irritating, it’d be inspirational. Not like what his girl— Cutting his thoughts off before they can spiral, he grabs his crutches and heads to the bedroom to dress. There’s no way he’s getting out of PT today, so he might as well wear his favorite sweats.

“Fucking shit day,” he grumbles and pulls a threadbare t-shirt over his head. Six and half minutes later, he’s in the living room glaring at his best friend but ready to go.

They’re at the clinic in twenty minutes, but it takes longer than Peeta wants it to before he gains his footing and swings into the building on his crutches. He hates how everything is an ordeal in a way it never used to be unless he was being unnecessarily overdramatic. He’d been plenty lazy when he was whole, often deciding to forgo seconds or another beer if it meant he had to get up from the couch and get it himself. Now, though, everything took effort. Necessary actions like taking a piss were problematic. He’d almost fallen the first time he tried to balance on one leg and direct the stream at the toilet. He’d been so angry, so furious, that he’d sprayed half the bathroom with urine and slammed his fist into the mirror and cracked the glass.

“Mr. Mellark?”

Peeta whips his head sideways at the voice. He slips and stumbles slightly, and a gentle, warm, undeniably feminine hand steadies him. He stares at her fingers on his forearm and licks his lips as heat radiates from her touch. Feeling unsteady in more than one way, he raises his eyes to hers and feels a jolt as he falls into platinum pools.

“I— I’m— Um, Mell— Peeta. Yes.”

She, whoever she is, tilts her head and confusion laces her graceful features. He wants to kiss her. He wants to wrap her braid around his palm and tug her to him and nudge her mouth open with his tongue and taste her and make her whimper with want and then fall into bed with her and fuck her six ways before the sun rises. He wants. So, so much.

“I’m sorry?”

Peeta swallows hard and shifts to tuck his hips backward in an attempt to stay soft—because his dick hasn’t been interested in a month but now it decides to wake up and say hello. It’s trying to salute this woman, because apparently his cock has no idea you don’t ever salute civilians.

He gesticulates with one hand, careful to keep the crutch under his armpit, but he can’t say a word. He’s never had that problem before, but coherent sounds won’t come out of his mouth no matter how many times he flaps his lips and gasps like a fish on dry land.

“Finnick Odair, ma’am.” Finnick has followed him in and extends his hand to the woman who’s driven every articulate thought from Peeta’s mind. “This sputtering human is my best friend and all-around grouch, Peeta Mellark. We’re here to see Haymitch Abernathy. Peet’s been working with him since he got back from Afghanistan.”

The woman’s face moves from flustered to breathtakingly gorgeous in a series of looks that make Peeta want to drop to her feet and worship her like the goddess she is. His heart swells as she flashes them both a shy, apologetic smile. He wants to see it every day for the rest of his life. He wants to put it there and murder everyone who ever makes it fade.

“It’s nice to meet you, Finnick. Peeta,” she nods to him before introducing herself. “I’m Katniss Everdeen.”

Peeta tries to say something. He really does, but his words are gone. Even the sarcastic, irritable, petulant words he’d leveled at Finnick earlier. He wants to talk to the vision in front of him, but he can’t get out a single word.

“Peeta thinks it’s nice to meet you,” Finnick teases and jostles his friend by bumping his shoulder. “And it is nice to meet you, Katniss. But—and I’m just grasping at straws here, but where’s Abernathy? This grump needs PT more than you and I need air.”

Katniss laughs, and Peeta swears he hears harp music played by angels. It’s melodic, and he longs to do everything he can think of just to hear it one more time.

“Mr. Abernathy’s out of town this week. Family emergency. I’m covering his appointments in the time being. It’s only temporary, but I promise you’re in good hands with me.”

Peeta gulps as her silver eyes shine at him. He nods, still mute like a lovestruck idiot, and Finnick pinches his arm.

“Ow!” he yelps. “What the fuck was that for?” Peeta glares at his best friend and then flushes when he realizes he’s just used profanity in front of the most perfect human he’d ever seen. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She laughs again, and he wants to melt into the floor. “You can call me Katniss, and it’s absolutely fine. I’ve been known to cuss a little. Only at appropriate times, though.”

She winks, and Finnick chuckles behind him. “Well, this is going to be a hell of a lot of fun. I was planning to run errands while you’re here, but maybe I’ll stick around for this one.”

“If you don’t leave, I’ll kill you,” Peeta mutters, and Finnick laughs again. The two men glare at each other for a few moments, but then Finnick shakes his head, smiles, and walks to the door.

“See you in a bit, Mellark. Try to keep it in your pants.”

Peeta flushes bright red and stammers an apology that probably sounds like he’s having a stroke. Something about the military and Irish assholes and no excuse because it’s too early to be drunk and say terrible things to beautiful women. Whatever it is, he’s sure he’s made absolutely no sense at all and only proved how inept he is at making conversation with anyone, let alone a deity who graces humanity with her very presence. To her credit, Katniss doesn’t flinch or do anything other than nod.

“You can apologize by working hard for me today,” she insists and motions for him to head to the folding parallel bars.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Katniss.”

“Ma’am?”

“My name is Katniss.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am. Katniss, ma’am.”

He’s a complete moron. He wants to curl into a ball and die, completely mortified that his normally charming self can’t seem to do anything but stammer like an idiot. He vows to make up for it by working his ass off for her, to prove himself worthy, to feel like himself again instead of someone who’s as broken as anyone’s ever been.

An hour later, Peeta’s sure he’s going to die. Correction, Peeta’s going to die because Katniss is killing him. His shirt is soaked with sweat, and every inch of him aches. His arm muscles tremble, and he curses his legs—both of them—for working like spaghetti and threatening to fold under him at any second.

He knows he’s been slacking, that he hasn’t taken care of himself the way he should be, that most of this is his fault, but he didn’t realize how terribly he’d screwed up his own recovery because Haymitch (who Peeta’s now convinced is the nicest human being alive after undergoing Katniss Everdeen’s grueling session) hasn’t pushed him nearly as hard at the gray-eyed beauty who’s strong as steel and doesn’t give an inch. Peeta simultaneously wants to bed her and beg her for mercy. Maybe at the same time.

“Good work today,” Katniss praises as she hands him a towel and scribbles some notes on her clipboard. “See you on Wednesday.”

“Thank you, ma’am—Katniss!” he corrects before she can do it herself. He’s terrified she’ll force him to do more exercises if he crosses her again, and that might be the end of him if she does. He wipes his face and slumps into the nearest chair. Finnick finds him there a few minutes later, too dazed and exhausted to move.

“Ready to go?”

Peeta lifts wide blue eyes to Finnick’s green ones and nods stupidly. Finnick just laughs and helps him to his feet.

“She work you over hard?” Finnick teases after getting no response from Peeta for half the drive home.

“So hard,” Peeta breathes.

Finnick can’t help laughing at the bewildered expression on his friend’s face but doesn’t push. There’s a new spark in Peeta’s eyes that hadn’t been there since before they were shipped out a few years prior. Back when Peeta wasn’t so jaded and cynical.

Peeta refuses Finnick’s offer to stay and cook him lunch. He needs some time alone to ground himself, and he huffs his relief when Finnick just shrugs and waves goodbye. Peeta stumbles into the house and flops onto the couch, groaning at his sore muscles and surprised at the throb of desire between his legs. It’s been so long since he’s been horny, and he’s been half-hard since he got to PT. He used to masturbate constantly, his libido somewhat legendary and his ability to seduce women just as strong. That was all before.

But now.

Dark hair and gray eyes and smooth skin, and Peeta drops his head back against the couch and wills his dick to relax.

It doesn’t.

Astonished but thrilled to feel that heavy pull in his balls again, Peeta spits in his palm and slips his hand into the elastic waistband of his sweats. He’s clammy and disgusting from the session, but that doesn’t matter as his fingers brush against his erection.

“Fuck,” he groans, and his eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t bother to free himself. There’s plenty of room in his pants to pump vigorously. His hand’s wet and warm, and his cock’s thickened and throbbing with need. He’s ridiculously out of practice and scared shitless about what it means that his sex drive’s suddenly reappeared, but it felt so good to jack off, to feel desire pooling low in his gut and his muscles tensing and his balls grow heavier and his thighs quivering and—

“Oh, shit,” he pants. “Fucking dammit to hell.”

White heat shoots through him, and he comes so hard he swears he loses consciousness for a few seconds. It takes forever, his load thick and hot and sticky on his hand and in his pants and all over his crotch, the first time he’s come in god knows how long. His gray sweats have dark spots as they cling to his skin in wet patches, and he heaves a sigh of relief so deep, he feels hollowed out.

“Katniss,” he whimpers and closes his eyes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t clean up the mess. Somehow, it’s comforting to have evidence that he’s still alive, still interested, still capable. He should get up and shower. He should dispose of the evidence, but he doesn’t do anything other than slip into darkness, a lazy grin on his face, spunk on his hand, and her name on his lips.

* * *

_His leg’s on fire. He’s on fire. He’s screaming. The world around him is screaming._

_“Stay with me, Mellark. Stay with me.”_

_His throat’s raw. Everything’s raw. His leg hurts so much, and he wants to scream so it’ll stop, but it doesn’t work, and he’s burning up, and he hurts, and it was only supposed to be three more months. Only three more months._

_“Stop the bleeding. We have to stop the bleeding.”_

_Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack._

_Blood and fire and screams and thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack._

_Make it stop! Make it stop, please!_

_“We’ve got to take the leg.”_

_Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t._

_He screams, but no one hears him._

* * *

Peeta jerks awake, the scream still on his lips. The afternoon sun dapples the living room floor, and he groans as he registers how disgusting he feels. Dried sweat and cum cover him, and he stinks. God, he’s disgusting. His apartment is disgusting. His life is disgusting.

He’s got to get himself together.

Pissed off that he has to, he texts Finnick and asks him to come over and to bring Annie with him. Without waiting for an answer, he heads to the shower and repeats the process he underwent that morning. He tosses his stained sweats and the worst of his laundry into the machine and grabs a garbage bag to into which he gathers empty liquor bottles, grease stained pizza boxes, and crumpled hamburger wrappers. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. Everybody’s got to start somewhere.

He’s slumped onto the couch, frustrated that he gets tired faster than he should, when his friends arrive. Finnick’s there with Annie, Johanna Mason raps on the door a few minutes later, and his best friends from high school, Darius and Beetee follow shortly after. He tries not to think about his missing family, how he’s been estranged from one brother since he told them he was enlisting and the other since soon after he got back. He tries not to think of the friends who didn’t come home from the war. He tries not to think about a lot of things. Instead, he focuses on what’s in front of him, who came on short notice and wants to help, and what might be the next steps to finding his way back to who he wants to be.

Clearing his throat, he faces the room and says, “I don’t like a lot of fanfare, so I’m not going to make a big speech.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Johanna shouts, and he glares at her fondly.

“Y’all have been really great the past year. Before that. Just really great.” He pauses for a beat, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. “I know I’m messed up. Since…the leg and, and, uh, you know, my family…and…”

“You don’t have to say her name, Peeta,” Annie coaxes gently. “We know.”

“I just want you to know, I’m trying.”

Everyone in the room gazes at him with compassion, and it jars him to realize Finnick’s been right the whole time. They don’t see him as anything other than their friend who’s gone through more than anyone should have to handle.

“Consider this me asking for help.”

Finnick claps him on the back, and Annie tugs him into a tender hug. Johanna, never one for displays of affection, swipes a palm over her right eye. The others just offer him nods of encouragement.

“So, how about we drink some beer and watch some football? It’s Monday night. I could use some normalcy.”

The evening with his friends helps, and Peeta’s feeling almost like his old self when Johanna joins him on the couch.

“Good to see you working through some things,” she says in her smoky voice that’s always reminded him on honey, liquor, and cigarettes.

“Thanks, Jo.”

“I know I was hard on you. I could have been more supportive of your choices. And then after, too.”

“After I fell apart because my fiancée fucked someone else because she couldn’t handle being with half a man?”

“No! Well, yeah. I mean, not the half a man part. The rest of it,” she said with a sad smile. “She didn’t deserve you, you know.”

Peeta shrugs and peels the label off the empty beer bottle he holds. “She was my fiancée, Jo, and she cheated on me while I was sitting at home on the couch thinking she was at the grocery store. I couldn’t walk, and she was having an orgasm. She’s a fucking bitch.”

“Still… I should have supported you better.”

“And I should have realized you were trying to help.”

Peeta glances sideways at his friend and eyes her as she runs her hand through her spiky black hair. It had been several years since he and Jo had gone through basic training together, and she’s always been completely honest with him. It had hurt when she tried to tell Peeta that the woman he thought he loved wouldn’t stay faithful when he shipped out, but Jo had always had the guts to go through the shit with him. He could have listened instead of defending Clove—who clearly didn’t deserve any of the misplaced loyalty he’d had for her. And the rift with his brother would never be resolved. Peeta didn’t have enough kindness in him to overcome that.

“Truce?” Peeta asks, and he clinks his beer against hers.

“I’ve heard your screams, Mellark. Very familiar with them. I feel like we can get past anything together.”

* * *

_“Mellark.”_

_The voice is gentle but insistent._

_“Sergeant Mellark, can you hear me?”_

_He tries to answer, but his entire body’s on fire. It hurts to breathe. The thought of opening his eyes is more than he can handle._

_“Sir, we need you to open your eyes.”_

_With great effort, he blinks them open, although they remain unfocused._

_“Welcome back, sir. We’re glad to see you.”_

_“Where am I?” he croaks, his voice disused and rusty._

_“You’re at LRMC.”_

_He’s in Germany in the hospital. He’s not in Afghanistan. His leg…_

_“My leg?”_

_The orderly looks at him with compassion. “We’ll call the doctor to come talk to you.”_

_Peeta struggles to sit up as his stomach lurches. Someone calls for a tranquilizer, but he rears up and screams when he sees his lower half. His left leg is gone. A needle jams into his neck, and he slips back into a blissful black hole where nothing hurts and nothing matters._

* * *

Peeta’s ready and waiting on Wednesday morning when Finnick arrives at his house. Instead of his friend having to meet him at the door, Peeta meets the pickup at the curb and hops in.

“Up early today?”

“Can we get some coffee on the way? I can’t make it for shit.”

Finnick nods and points the vehicle toward the nearest coffee shop without saying anything. He sits with Peeta in companionable silence until they’ve gone through the drive-thru and are on the way to the clinic for the appointment. Then he listens as Peeta rambles about little things that would have made him furious a few days ago.

“Really proud of you, man,” Finnick says as Peeta slides from the truck.

“I’m not doing anything special.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Finnick responds. “But you’re doing what needs to be done, and sometimes that’s the bravest thing a person can tackle.”

Katniss waits for him inside, and Peeta almost freezes at the sight of her. He wants to ask her out immediately, but he fights the urge. She’s his therapist, and that’s strictly off-limits. His regular PT will be back next week, and then Peeta can work on figuring out how to get to know the beauty who plans to make his life a living hell for the next hour.

“Is there a reason you’re slacking this morning?” she asks, and he has to bite his tongue not to curse at her. “I mean, you’re a Marine. I thought they were the best of the best. This lackadaisical attitude isn’t showing me much of that.”

He wants to quit, to yell at her and blame his leg for giving up, but all the anger in his soul burns into a fathomless pool of lust. If he walks away from her now, he’ll be leaving part of himself. He has to prove to her he can do this. Then, maybe he’ll start to believe he can.

“Come on, soldier,” she barks. “Fifty more feet. Get a move on.”

“I’m moving,” he spits and glares at her.

“That’s it,” she encourages. “Show me your fire. You’ll be rewarded really well if you keep it up.”

Desire shoots straight to his groin, and his hands slide on the bar as his mind goes to a dark, lewd place. He takes a few more steps, cursing his prosthetic while his shoulders and biceps strain to keep balance. Panting and exhausted, he stumbles at the end, and she catches him. She pushes her left shoulder into his chest and steadies him.

“Looks like somebody wants that reward,” she teases and helps him stand on his own.

“You have no idea,” he grunts. “No idea.”

She flushes a beautiful shade that makes her eyes sparkle and slaps him on the shoulder. “Good work today. I’ll see you on Friday. One more session, and then you’ll have your normal guy again.”

“Nothing about Abernathy’s normal,” he calls to her retreating back, and she waves over her shoulder without looking at him. “What about my reward?”

“Friday!” she answers as she leaves the room. “If you behave.”

* * *

_Peeta tries to stay under, but he can’t. Too soon, he’s flying to the surface and his eyes open of their own accord._

_A fresh hell starts every day as the doctors talk to him, explaining the procedures and what he can expect now that it’s done._

_“You’re very lucky, Sergeant Mellark. We only had to take the leg below the knee.”_

_“You’ll be shipped home, and then three months recovery before a prosthetic fitting.”_

_“The shell hit your artery. You almost bled out on the helicopter. You’re lucky to be alive.”_

_“The last guy I treated wasn’t so lucky.”_

_“You’re lucky, sir.”_

_“So lucky you were in exfil when you were shot.”_

_Lucky, lucky, lucky._

_The word echoes through his mind, but it won’t register. Not this way. Losing a limb isn’t lucky, no matter what anyone tells him. He’ll never be convinced._

_It’s all too much, so he closes his eyes and wills the tears to stay hidden. He just wants to be alone._

* * *

“Hold it!” Katniss barks. “Don’t you dare drop. Come on. Ten more seconds. You can do this.”

Peeta grunts, and his low growl turns into a howl as the seconds creep along—one, two, three, four. He’s going to do die. His arms are going to fall off, and he’s going to collapse in a pile of boneless goo. His upper body is shaking as he holds on to the pullup bar. His deltoids tremble, and his biceps strain, and his triceps are on fire, and he wants to kill everyone. He also feels unmistakably, gloriously, amazingly alive.

“That’s it! Yes!” she shrieks. “Drop!”

He yells loudly as he lets go, releasing the pain and stress, but her arms are there to steady him. He wobbles on his right leg, protecting his left. He’s still not used to the prosthetic. Still tends to wear it only when he’s at PT instead of integrating it into his everyday life. He’s not sure why. It probably has something to do with accepting his fate, which says a lot about how stubborn and mule-headed he is, even when the loss is already permanent. He’s never going to be flesh and blood below his left knee again.

“You’re amazing,” Katniss says and heaps praise on him. “You’ve worked your ass off for me this week. You deserve that reward now.”

Peeta leans into her touch. His eyes drop to her mouth, and he imagines for a second the way it would feel under his, her tongue tracing his lips and the wet heat between them. She shakes her head and steps away from him completely.

“Hot tub. Go! No more working out. You deserve to soak those sore muscles.”

“You’re the devil,” he pants. Everything hurts, and his shirt clings to him in sweaty patches.

“I’ll make sure to tell Abernathy that Satan took care of his clients.”

Peeta stares at her for a few seconds before turning to walk away, unsteady, limping, but on his own two feet—well, one of his feet and a prosthetic one. He’d forgotten about his regular therapist during the session. The thought of getting back to normal appeals to him, but he’ll miss her urgings, both gentle and authoritative, in his sessions. But now maybe…

Well, he might be able to work up enough nerve to ask her out.

He ponders the option in the whirlpool, the hot water easing and soothing his muscles. He thinks about it on the way home and considers asking Finnick before slinking into the house and spending the weekend rolling the option around in his mind.

Is it okay to even ask? She’s not his regular therapist, so he can’t imagine a reason it would be a problem ethically. He doesn’t want to get her in trouble at her job, but he really likes this girl. Woman. Female. Whatever.

How would he ask her? It’s not like he can just waltz up to her and blurt it out in the gym. He doesn’t know her outside of the clinic, and he has no desire to stalk her. He’s going to have to work on finding a way to talk to her that isn’t creepy or voyeuristic. That might take some creativity, and he’s not sure how much of that he has left anymore.

Would she agree to go out with him? This is the sticking point for him, because he hasn’t dated anyone since he got home. Not since it all happened. Not since his fiancée found out he’d lost a leg and then fucked his brother instead of staying faithful.

“She’s not gonna want you, Mellark. She won’t.”

He works himself into a mess of despair over the weekend and seriously considers skipping his appointment on Monday morning. The only reason he gets it together is because he really wants to see if maybe he’s got a shot with her. If he can just get an inkling today, he’ll know whether or not it’s worth it to kill himself to impress her.

* * *

_He’s been in the hospital for two weeks before he can stand to think about calling his fiancée. He doesn’t want to break her heart, and he’s worried about how she’ll react to the news. He also doesn’t want to face the nagging little worry in the back of his brain that she hasn’t tried to call him once she was informed he’d been injured. An email telling him she’s happy he’s all right isn’t exactly enough to convince him she’s particularly concerned._

_He’s cried more than he wants to admit over the past several days. After the initial shock of losing his limb and a few panic attacks caused by phantom pain during which he feels like his brain’s been hijacked, his mental state is one of anguish, despondency, and hopelessness. He has no idea how he’s going to rebuild his life. None of this was in his plans._

_The military grants him telephone privileges, and Clove’s aware of the time the conversation’s supposed to happen. With a heavy heart and desperate desire to talk to the woman he loves, he waits with bated breath for her to answer the phone._

_“Hello?”_

_“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathes into the phone, and his voice catches on a sob. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”_

_“Peeta,” she says, her manner stronger than his. “How are you?”_

_Her reception isn’t as warm as he’d like, but he shoves the twinge of unease aside. They’ve been separated so long, it’s normal for things to be a little awkward, right?_

_“Are you sitting down?” When she doesn’t answer for a few seconds, he says as gently as possible, “You better sit down, sweetie. I’ve got some news.”_

_“What’s wrong?”_

_He swallows hard, and tears stream down his face. He’s about to break his fiancée’s heart, and he has no idea how to be the bearer of bad news. He’s supposed to make her life better, easier, sweeter. He’s not supposed to destroy it and saddle her with half a man._

_“There was a dogfight,” he begins cautiously. “You know about that. I was injured.”_

_“Yeah. You’re in Germany. They told me you were… They told me you’re going to be okay.”_

_“I am, babe. I promise. But—”_

_“But what?” she demands, anger tinging her words._

_“Baby, the injury’s pretty bad.”_

_“How bad?” she asks sharply. It almost sounds like she’s spitting at him._

_“My left leg. Uh, it’s, I mean— Clove, they had to amputate below the knee. I’m an amputee.”_

_It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and somehow that makes it terribly, hideously real. He’s weeping openly now, broken-hearted for his loss and for the burden he’s putting on the woman he loves. He expects comfort. He waits for her acknowledgement, for her reassurance that it’s going to be okay, that she’s grateful to have him back alive, no matter what’s missing now._

_He waits for her to say something, but all he hears is silence._

_“Clove?” he asks after a few minutes pass. He’s tentative, but he’s starting to panic._

_“I’m here,” she whispers after a delay so long he wonders if they’ve been disconnected._

_“I’m sorry,” he sniffs, even though he has no reason to apologize. It isn’t like he had a choice._

_“How long until you’re back in the States?”_

_Confused, he furrows his brow and stammers out a non-committal length that’s loosely based on the information his doctors have provided. Her detached tone spurs icy claws to wrap around his heart and crawl into his stomach._

_“Soon.”_

_“Let me know when you have more specific information. I’ll make sure to be there when you get off the plane.”_

_“Clo—”_

_“I’m so sorry. I have to go,” she blurts. “I have an appointment.”_

_“I—”_

_“Take care of yourself. See you soon.”_

_The line goes dead, and Peeta sits in shock, the phone held to his ear and an ache in his gut so sharp it causes physical pain. He blinks, and his eyes barely reopen. Too devastated to process the conversation they just had and what his mutilated lower half means for him in the months to come, he allows his eyelids to flutter shut and drops into subconsciousness. It feels like a pile of pillows._

* * *

“If it isn’t my favorite patient, Sergeant Mellark.”

“Abernathy,” Peeta says with a curt nod.

“You’re on time,” Haymitch observes under a furrowed brow. “And you don’t stink like booze.”

“I had an epiphany.”

“You had an epiphany. That’s…unique.”

“Yeah, well, you should leave town more often, I guess. Give me some space to think without you yapping at me.”

Haymitch raises his eyebrows and surveys Peeta. His eyes twinkle, and a lewd grin spreads across his face. “Ah…I see.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mellark. Absolutely nothing.”

Peeta snaps his mouth shut and ignores his PT. He has no intention of giving the man any ammunition—even if it was any of his business. Instead, he shrugs off his hoodie and tightens his shoelaces. He’s ready to work, and he doesn’t have time for someone poking into his personal business.

They’re halfway through the session when he sees Katniss across the gym, and he loses his grip on the pullup bar. He falls without warning and releases a frustrated growl at the pain in his left leg. She glances his way and gives him a gentle smile under a concerned look, but Haymitch barks at him to get off the floor. Peeta turns away and gets back to work. He hasn’t figured out how to approach asking Katniss on a date, so he focuses instead on getting his body back in shape. The last thing he wants is for her to see him as unworthy of her.

The hour ticks by without further incident and Haymitch grumbles his approval as Peeta wipes his brow and heads to the parking lot. He goes home and downs a protein shake, makes lunch, and dusts off the free weights that have lived in the back of the closet since he’d been on his own. Music blares through the headphones, and he shuts out the world as he pumps iron.

Peeta develops a routine over the next few weeks. On the days he has physical therapy, he spends the day working on his recovery. He lifts weights and cooks healthier meals than he’s bothered to eat in a very long time. The muscles that atrophied during his convalescence heal and bunch under his skin, and he feels better than he can ever remember when he wasn’t on deployment.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he paints and sketches and writes. He rediscovers his love of beauty and language. He develops his craft and feeds his talent. It feels like psychoanalysis and works better than any session he’s had sitting on a couch and chatting with a trained professional. He knows head shrinking works, but he finds being alone with a paintbrush or pen or charcoal in his hand is better for him.

The weekends are spent rediscovering his love of life. He spends time with Finnick and Annie and the rest of his friends doing a myriad of activities ranging from karaoke to hiking to attending local high school football games and indulging in one too many hot dogs. It’s his guilty pleasure since he’s so disciplined during the week.

The PT sessions get easier, Haymitch lavishes him with praise, and Peeta’s heart catches in his chest every time he sees Katniss from far away. She always nods at him, but he hasn’t spoken to her since she told him to head to the hot tub after their last session together. He contemplates tracking down her phone number, but he’s not ready yet. He needs more time to be good enough for her.

Three months pass before he knows it, and Haymitch stops their session a few minutes early and tosses Peeta a towel.

“You know, you can stop being a martyr any time now,” the PT says gruffly.

Irritated, Peeta asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been working your ass off for the past three months. It’s not for no reason.”

“I want to get better.”

“You want absolution.”

Peeta laughs wryly. “Who doesn’t?”

“Mellark, you could live a hundred lifetimes and never feel like you’re good enough. Maybe it’s time to take it easy on yourself.”

Peeta purses his lips and doesn’t answer.

“Actually, it may just be time to ask her out.”

He freezes and stares at his therapist. “What did you just say?”

Haymitch rolls his eyes and strolls toward his office. “I said ask her out. She’s been watching you, probably more than she even realizes. Ask her out.”

“I don’t— She— Who are you even talking about, old man?”

“Hey, Everdeen!” Haymitch bellows, and Katniss pokes her head out the women’s locker room.

“What do you want, Abernathy? The next town over heard you yell,” she says with a smirk.

“My charge here—Sarge, that is—has some questions about some exercises you did with him when I was gone. Says he wants to adapt them for his workouts. Help him out?”

“Sure,” she chirps and jogs across the room to stand before Peeta. “Hey. You’ve been working hard the past few months.”

Peeta flushes and stubs his toe against the ground. “Thanks. I appreciate the kick in the ass you gave me when we worked together. It…it, uh, helped.”

“I’m so glad,” she says, clearly pleased and a tiny bit embarrassed. “It seemed like you needed someone to remind you that you’re worth it. You made a huge sacrifice for your country, and empty words and a million thank-you-for-your-services don’t really help when your life spirals out of control.”

He studies her carefully for a few minutes. Trim body, thick braid of dark hair over one shoulder, and those gorgeous pools of silver that shine from her face. She’s just as beautiful as she was the first time he saw her, and he hasn’t stopped wanting to be with her since she’d said his name three months prior.

She ducks her head and bites her bottom lip. “Sorry. I don’t mean to discount people’s attempts to say thanks to our veterans,” she blurts. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just mean… I mean… Thank you.”  
  


“For what?”

“For your service?”

He barks with laughter and a grin tugs up the corners of her mouth. They smile at each other companionably for several long, charged seconds. His hands itch to reach out and brush run his thumb over her bottom lip. “For my service, huh?”

“Yeah, for lack of anything else coherent.” She toys with the end of her braid and then asks, “What were the exercises you want to adapt? I can help with that.”

Right. What Haymitch said. His thoughts race, and he racks his brain to figure out what to say without sounding like a total idiot. He has no idea what to ask that won’t be blatantly obvious he’s just trying to get close to her.

“Well,” he drawls, dragging out the word, “I’ve been working on balance and core strength, but I’ve got a twinge in both my shoulders. Every time I lift, I strain my delts, and that means I’m struggling with planking and sit-ups and push-ups and some other things. Any suggestions for how to relieve pressure on my shoulders?”

“Deep tissue massages. Work the muscle really hard, and it’ll…uh… I mean, pressure and heat—if you like things heated, that is. Warming oils can help, too. I can give you some…” She stumbles to a stop, clearly aware that she’s rambling, and her face flushes a spectacular shade of fire engine red. Every word out of her mouth was a double entendre, and she’s obviously mortified by what she’s said.

“Know anybody who gives good ones?” he asks innocently and watches her reaction. She squirms under his gaze, electricity crackling between them.

“I can give you a reference,” she mumbles miserably and looks like she wants to melt into the floor.

“You can get me a number, huh?”

She nods and shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah, I’ve got a list in my office.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d love to get that from you. The number, that is.”

“Okay,” she responds quietly.

“Your number.”

“My—? What?”

“Katniss, I’d really like to have your number, if that’d be okay,” he explains carefully. When her eyes shine at him hopefully, he swallows hard and takes a chance. “Would you, maybe, want to have dinner sometime? Go out with me? On a date?”

Her expression shifts from shock to pleased to eager in nanoseconds. She squares her shoulders and smiles widely at him.

“I’d love to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Giddy, he pulls his phone out of his gym bag and hands it to her. “Can I get your number?”

She types in her contact information, and Peeta grins and waves instead of saying anything more and ruining the moment. It’s been three months since he met her, but it only takes three seconds for him to text her when he leaves the gym. By the time he’s out of the parking lot, they have a date for Friday night.

* * *

_Peeta’s been home for three months when his phone rings with a call from Clove. She’s an hour later than she said she’d be coming today. She promised to bring him some things from the store, and he wonders what’s stumped her._

_He answers with an approximation of a smile. He doesn’t have many of those these days, but talking to his fiancée is one way to lift his spirits, which are admittedly in the dumps. “You don’t understand the list, silly woman?”_

_She doesn’t answer. There’s a muffled scuffle in the background, and he listens carefully, trying to figure out exactly where she is. Still at the grocery store? Driving home? Did she have other errands she decided to run while she was out anyway? It takes thirty seconds, at least, for his ears to adjust and recognize the sounds. His brain blacks out, and he shakes his head, unable to process what he’s hearing._

_It’s Clove’s voice. He knows it like he knows his own, but it can’t possibly be real. Someone’s hacked her phone and is mimicking her. That’s the only logical explanation. Panic clogs his throat, and his lips move soundlessly. He’s too stunned to speak._

_She’s moaning. Broken grunts in a frantic rhythm that’s accompanied by rustling noises and a steady thump. He listens, horrified, unable to disconnect and stop the hell he’s hearing. He knows what those sounds mean. He’s heard them from her every time they make love, every time he’s inside her, every time she’s close to climax and wails his name as she tips over the edge._

_“Graham!”_

_Peeta’s world shrinks to that word. His brother’s name. Noises that are definitely male. Sounds that make his stomach lurch, and he gags. He can’t reach his crutches fast enough, and he definitely doesn’t make it to the bathroom in time. He has the presence of mind to drop the phone and grab a trashcan. He empties his stomach, retching and choking on humiliation and sorrow and pain that burns worse than this scar._

_When he’s done, he picks up his phone and sees the connection’s still open. There’s no way she meant to call. It has to be the worst-timed and horrific butt dial of all time. He ends the call and leans back on the couch, too heartsick to do anything other than turn off his thoughts and sink into the cushions._

_Clove returns a half hour later, eyes bright and cheeks rosy. She stops when she sees him. He feels like death, so her shocked face doesn’t surprise him. He must look even worse._

_“What happened? You look terrible.”_

_He glares at her, holding her gaze and piercing her with accusation that cuts into his soul._

_“You fucked my brother. Get out.”_

_Her face drains, and he sees panic flicker in her eyes. “What are you talking about?”_

_“Check your call log. I think you misdialed. Unless you wanted me to hear.”_

_Her hands tremble as she swipes up on the screen. Her shoulders slump, and she curses under her breath. It’s clear she’s just now realized what he heard._

_“Peeta, I—”_

_“Get out.”_

_“Peeta—”_

_“Get out!” he screams. “Get out, you bitch! GET OUT!”_

_Stricken, she stumbles backward and through the door. He picks the whiskey bottle off the coffee table and takes a swig. He drinks. Somewhere between half and all the way through the bottle he deletes her number. Then he deletes his brother’s. Then he throws his phone across the room so hard, the screen shatters. Just like his heart._

* * *

Peeta wipes his palms on his jeans and huffs in a deep breath. He mutters to himself words of encouragement and finally lifts his hand and knocks on her door. His heart clogs his throat as he waits for her, and his vision goes fuzzy when she finally opens the door.

“You look…I mean…wow,” he stammers, and Katniss smiles shyly at him. He can’t really speak as they walk to his car. The drive to the pub is uneventful, although quiet, and Peeta sighs in relief when they’re ushered quickly to a semi-private booth near the back of the restaurant that’s both far enough away from the kitchen and isn’t too close to the bathrooms.

“You ever been here before?” he asks and hands her a beer list.

“No,” she answers. “It’s nice.”

“I thought about taking you to Chez Panem, but that seemed…I don’t know, not your style. Like you’d be uncomfortable there because everything’s pretentious,” he explains, his voice threatening to crack on every syllable. He’s so beyond nervous he doesn’t know the word for it. “I hope that’s okay.”

Katniss reaches over and squeezes his hand before dropping hers back in her lap. “This is perfect Peeta. You read that situation exactly right.”

He flushes, pleased at her words, and ducks his head to look at the menu. It shouldn’t be this hard, but somehow, he feels like he’s fourteen again and has a crush on the girl in his class who barely gives him the time of day. Never mind that he’s a military vet, has been engaged, and has bedded his fair share of women. He’s as nervous as he was on the night he lost his virginity. He’s scared of what that means.

“Thanks for going out with me tonight,” Peeta offers after the waitress takes their orders. “I know I’ve been on your radar you for a while. I just wasn’t sure how to go about it.”

Katniss’ eyes sparkle, and she laughs lightly before answering. “You don’t seem to give up on much. I doubt you would have taken too much longer to figure it out. Besides, it’s been three months. I figured you’d been trying to impress me for long enough.”

Three months. It hits him that another three-month increment has passed without him even realizing it. Maybe this is the one that will break the cycle of terrible things. Maybe this three-month period will turn out all right for him in the long run.

Maybe it’ll even be amazing.

“Well, I appreciate it,” he answers and fumbles for another conversation topic.

“How are you adjusting to civilian life?” Katniss asks, and Peeta drops his eyes to study his hands. This is one of those questions that makes him wonder how to answer. Should he say he’s fine and he’s doing fine, or should he be honest and turn the conversation much more serious? Does she really want to know how he’s feeling, or is she just being kind?

“Uh…” he mumbles and shoots the waitress a grateful grin when she sets beer glasses in front of them both.

“That well, huh?”

Peeta shrugs and takes a long sip of the lager. Flavor bursts over his tongue, and he relaxes his shoulders slightly before answering. “It’s difficult,” he admits. “I joined the military so I could afford college. And then…” He motions to his leg before continuing. “I know I can still go. Later. I know life isn’t over, but this is a big blow. Losing my leg, things with my family aren’t great, some, uh, other personal stuff… It’s been tough. And nightmares and loud noises. There’s been a lot of trauma, and it’s hard to deal with that when I’m trying to relearn how to walk and shower and…pardon the crassness, but how to take a piss without falling over.”

Katniss studies him for a few minutes, quietly and with an empathic look. If there’d been a hint of pity, he isn’t sure what he would have done, but there isn’t. She looks like she might actually understand what he’s trying to say. That he’s acknowledging the loss and mourning his old life without succumbing to despair.

“You’re a pretty remarkable person, Peeta Mellark.”

He blushes and looks everywhere but directly at her. “Nah,” he protests, but she isn’t having any of it.

“You really are. You’re one of the hardest-working patients I’ve ever met. You can hold your own with Abernathy, and that’s not easy. You know when to shut up and listen, and you challenge when you feel like you’re being pushed too far. That’s admirable. You respect authority but don’t follow blindly. That’s important in both military and civilian life, and it makes for a good man.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says, his face beet red. “I mean, you’re tough as nails, worked my ass into the ground, but you knew when to back off and lavish praise and offer rewards. That seems to translate into confidence and competence and care and compassion.”

“The four Cs of PT.”

“Is it really?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“No,” she answers, her eyes sparkling as a chuckle escapes her. “But it sounded good.”

He rolls his eyes and adds, “And you’ve got a wicked sense of humor, and you’re really beautiful.”

Katniss blushes then, and he decides it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

“What else should I know about you? Because I’d really like to know everything.”

They talk for hours, both of them flustered and blushing and giddy and intrigued by the other. She regales him with stories about her family, in particular, her sister who it’s obvious Katniss adores. He tells stories about Finnick and the rest of his unit, his time as a high school wrestler, his obsession with painting and drawing when he was young and how he’d given it up because his mother had convinced him it wouldn’t get him anywhere in life. How his fingers had itched to grip a paintbrush again, and he’s got a wish list for paints and canvases he wants to buy. How he thinks it might be good therapy to lose himself in swirls and shades and tints and perspective.

They talk so long that Peeta loses track of time. All he knows is that he feels alive with her, finally feels like a whole person instead of someone with only half of himself to offer. It’s amazing what being treated as a human instead of a statistic will do for his attitude.

Finally, he sighs, “I guess we should get going.” He doesn’t want the night to end, but the pub is nearing closing time. He takes slight comfort in Katniss’ disappointed frown and offers her his hand as she rises from the booth. She grasps it and surprises him by winding her fingers through his. She doesn’t let go until they reach the car. Once settled in the front seat, he starts the car and backs out of the parking spot. When he shifts it into drive, he keeps his hand on the gear shaft and waits. A few seconds later, he moves it to her thigh.

“You’re a smooth one, aren’t you, Mellark?” she says with a grin.

He chuckles and squeezes her knee before putting his hand back on the wheel. “Maybe not if you just called me out on it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” she admits. “Just admiring your game.”

“I used to be quite a lady’s man. Until—”

“Tell me what happened.”

Her voice is quiet but strong. It sounds like it belongs to someone who can handle anything and come out better on the other side.

“I was engaged,” he confesses. “Her name was Clove, and I thought I loved her. I did love her, but I didn’t really know who she actually was. She had trouble with my deployments, but she didn’t act on anything until the last one. I was three months from getting out when my unit was pinned down in a firefight. We were almost out when I got hit. Almost died. Lost my leg. When I finally got to talk to Clove, she didn’t take it well. I came home, and she… She decided she didn’t want our life anymore. She fucked my brother. Butt dialed me during it. I kicked her out. They’re still together. Getting married next year.”

Katniss looks absolutely stricken. Her hands tremble as she reaches for his leg. Her fingers grip his thigh as she breathes, “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs and gives a wry smile. “She would have made a terrible military wife. She’s better as a trophy for Graham to show off at his business dinners. They’re a matched set—beautiful, selfish people who like small talk and lack substance. I’m better off without her.”

“Regardless, it’s still a lot to deal with when you’re suffering the kind of loss you did.”

“It’s been a rough year.”

“You’ve done really well the past few months from what I’ve seen.” He preens a little at her compliment and smiles when she touches his shoulder.

“Sometimes, there’s a reason for getting better.”

He pulls to a stop in front of her house and stops the car. Following her to the door, he runs through a million scenarios about how to end their evening and isn’t at all prepared for what actually happens.

“I had a really good time tonight.”

Her eyes are soft and liquid as they gaze at him, and he can’t do anything but nod. He’s tongue-tied around her again the same way he was three months ago when he first met her. He’s still trying to form words, when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down into a gentle, lip brushing kiss.

His heart bursts at the feel of her mouth on his, and the sparks flashing between them combust into an all-encompassing flame. He slants his head to gain better access, and her tongue sweeps into his mouth and knocks all coherent thought from his brain. She tangles her fingers in the hair at his nape and presses her body against him as breathy whimpers catch in the back of her throat.

“Holy shit,” he pants when they break the kiss for air. Two seconds later, she tugs him back into another searing kiss that makes his toes curls. His hands settle on her hips and then curve around to her ass. When he lifts her onto her tiptoes and nudges his hips against hers, they both release simultaneous groans that echo in the cool night air.

He tries to get himself under control. He steps back to gain some distance and breathes raggedly with his eyes pressed closed for half a minute. He’s feeling okay until he looks and sees her face, aroused and blissful with her eyes half closed.

“Peeta,” Katniss breathes. “I don’t…”

“I know. I don’t either.”

She looks at him, and he wants to run away at the same time he wants to pull her into his arms and stay with her forever. It’s too soon to have these kind of feelings, but they’re real, nonetheless. His heart clutches at her vulnerability, and he feels a rush of protectiveness.

Her eyes drift closed as he leans in this time and brushes his lips over hers. There’s no urgency now; just a deep connection that begs for slow, languid caresses. She tastes like hops and the brownie they shared, and she sighs in the back of her throat at the touch. He releases a strangled groan and tilts his head as their lips part. His eyes blink open to see her face frozen in what he can only describe as awe. Shadows of her eyelashes fall over her cheeks, and he pauses to study her before leaning down and nudging her nose with his and tracing her lips with the tip of his tongue. She opens under him, and she tastes like springtime and icicles and hope.

“Come inside,” she whispers and tugs him into her apartment by his shirt. He’s slightly unsteady, but she holds him up, bracing his body against hers, and then his back is against the door as she kisses him so completely he feels it in his toes. Again.

Her hands are under his shirt, and his fingers are twisted in her hair. She’s glued to him, and he can’t remember the last time he’s wanted something as much as he wants her. She shifts and her hip grazes his groin. He grunts, and she presses into him harder.

“Katniss.”

“I hate your clothes.”

“I hate yours.”

“Take them off.”

“Mine or yours?”

She laughs into his mouth, and he feels like he’s a helium balloon. He’s never felt quite so free or desired or…happy, he realizes with a jolt. He’s happy. She makes him happy.

“Both,” she answers, and he obliges as he pulls her sweater over her head and shrugs his shirt from his shoulders.

Her skin against his burns, but it’s the good kind, the kind that reminds him of sticking his finger in hot wax and waiting for it to cool. It’s magical and skirts the border of pain and pleasure. It’s everything he’s feeling as his arms wrap around her back and her breasts press against his chest. He unsnaps her bra and drops his mouth to her neck. When she arches backward, he ducks to capture a nipple in his mouth and tugs the peak with his teeth. She produces a noise that makes his knees weak, and she pulls him to the couch.

“Bed’s too far,” she gasps as she shoves him down and straddles his waist.

He lies there, flat on his back, cock rigid and throbbing under her, and his mouth drops open at the sight of her over him.

“Your tits are… fuck…”

“Touch them,” she tells him, her tone almost an order, and his hands shake as he trails up her sides until he can cup them in his palms, his thumbs grazing her nipples. Her mouth falls open, and her eyes flutter halfway closed.

He wants to tell her how beautiful she is. He wants to tell her how inadequate he feels because she’s everything he’s ever wanted. He wants to stay like this with her forever. He wants everything. He didn’t know he could want anything as much as he wants to be worthy of her.

Her fingers fumble with his zipper, and he makes a noise that would be embarrassing if she wasn’t looking at him like he was the best thing she’d ever seen. She wriggles his pants over his hips and drops between his legs until her mouth—

“Oh my fuck,” he hisses as her lips closes over him. “Katniss. Shit.”

His hips arch under her, desperate to get closer. She sucks and licks him as he writhes, and he’s so close already. Closer than he should be for only a few minutes of her mouth on him. He needs to last. He has to wait for something. He doesn’t know what it is, but he can’t come yet. He can’t. He has to take her with him.

“You’ve got to stop,” he begs, but she doesn’t. “Katniss, please. I can’t— Slow down. Please.”

She shakes her head and releases him long enough to say, “We have all night.”

He swears and bites his lip. He’s trying to hold off. He tries so hard, but her hands cup his balls and her tongue licks the tip and he’s gone. He tries to warn her, but it happens too quickly. He’s filling her mouth before she can pull back, and he groans when she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she milks him with hollowed cheeks and an eager tongue until he’s quivering and boneless. He’s sweaty and fighting for breath when he’s finally able to form a sentence. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as sarcasm, but he’s a dick, and he knows it.

“You didn’t even take my pants off first. I feel so used.”

She snorts and clambers off him to shed her leggings and divest him of his wrinkled khakis that had been bunched around his knees while she gave him head. His breath catches as she climbs up and straddles him again. She’s naked, dark hair curled in a carefully trimmed triangle between her legs, and it’s glistening already.

She stretches over him, her skin fused to his. She ruts against his left thigh, careful to stay above the knee and not touch the sensitive skin of his amputation. She’s wet against him, eager to reach her climax, and he wants to give it to her, even if he’s not ready to go again.

Their mouths knock together in desperate, hot, lustful kisses. His hands caress every part of her he can find until he cups her ass and helps her grind down against him. She whimpers and keens at the increased friction, and his brain threatens to short circuit.

Peeta tries to slow things down. He cups her chin and calms the kisses until their mouths move languidly together and her hips undulate slowly and she’s dragging her pussy from mid-thigh to his hip. Over and over. Repeatedly until he feels like he’s never known anything but her marking him with her arousal, sticky and wet and hot on his shattered leg. Her breath hitches each time her clit rubs against the protruded hip bone, and his cock twitches.

“Yeah, keep doing that,” he pleads. She’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, and he’s almost out of his head to be inside her. He needs a little more time, a little bit more recovery, before he can sink into her or her drop onto him or however this is going to work. He didn’t used to lay on his back for sex, but she seems to know what she wants, and he’s not about to argue with her. Not when they’re this close to something both of them want so much.

“Condom?” she asks as her teeth nip at his jaw.

“Wallet. Back pocket,” he answers, his voice broken and ragged. She fishes for his pants and finds what she needs. Then she raises onto her knees, still rocking against his thigh, and wraps her hand around his dick. He hisses at the contact, and blood rushes from his head to thicken and harden, making him ready again. She rips the foil and sheathes him quickly, and then she raises over him.

“Peeta,” she whispers and waits for him to look her in the eyes before she lowers herself onto him.

He enters another plane, one on which he’s never known pain or sadness or brokenness or anything other than the feel of her around him, the noises he’s making, the look of her riding him, the way she pants his name and leans backward so that her back is arched and her pussy slides over him at just the right angle and—

He’s already close again. There’s no way it’s possible, but he is. He needs to last. For her. He wants to give her everything, and he’s too far gone already.

Peeta shakes his head, desperately trying to gain some clarity. She’s making high-pitched mewling noises that seem to catch in the back of her throat every time she glides down his cock. Her eyes are glazed and hazy, and her lips are parted in a blissful half-smile.

Awed and reverent, he moves his hand from her hip and grazes his thumb over the trail of hair between her legs. It’s slick with lube from the condom and her own arousal. Her breath hitches, and he presses into her, seeking her clit, and cursing when she groans his name.

“Feel so good,” she babbles. “So good. God, Peeta. Yeah. Oh fuck, yeah.”

He presses harder, wiggling his thumb back and forth, faster and faster until she’s bucking atop him, frantic and unbidden. She’s bowed so far back, he can hardly see her face, but the rest of her is exquisite. Her skin shines with a sheen of moisture, and her lean stomach tenses and contracts with every thrust. Her thighs hug his torso, and her perfect tits make him want to spend hours laving them with his tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he breathes, shocked that he’s telling the truth. “Fuck, Katniss. I can’t wait. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

His words turn to incoherent moans as his eyes droop closed and his back bends off the couch and he pours into the condom with enthusiastic spurts of climax. He loses rhythm as he tries to stroke her to her own orgasm, but he can’t. He’s beyond spent, and he just cannot fathom that there’s any more energy.

Her hand joins his, and he forces his eyes open to watch her rubbing herself furiously. Her face is a mask of pained desperation, and he watches in complete astonishment as she starts to convulse. The sounds she makes. The way her legs and hips and—fuck, everything bounces up and down on him until she’s screaming and coming and pulsing around him, hot and sloppy wet and so fucking tight.

Eventually, she collapses against him, but it takes a while. It’s more than once and more than twice, and he can’t tell what’s real and not real, but it all seems a little hazy and shiny to him. He’s drifting, his hands trailing up and down her back, whispering soothing words into her ear when she finally lifts her head to kiss him.

“Shiiiiiiiiiit,” she hisses as she flexes around him involuntarily.

“I might have stopped living a little while ago,” he huffs, and she chuckles.

He’s lying. He’s more alive than he’s been in over a year. Since the day he thought everything had changed, but he was stupid. He knows that now. Meeting Katniss may be the thing that defines everything from now until the day he leaves the earth. And it’s only been three months.

Three months. How can it only be three months? How can that same time frame be the best thing that’s happened to him when once it meant the biggest tragedy?

She nuzzles his neck, and he kisses the top of her head and tightens his arms around her. He doesn’t want to let her go. Not ever.

“You don’t have to leave, right? Stay with me?” she asks.

He answers with a kiss.

* * *

_“Hey, Mellark.”_

_“Sir?” Peeta asks as he waits in the wheelchair for his transport. He’s flying home today, and he doesn’t want anything other than peace and quiet._

_“Just wanted to introduce you to the flight nurse,” the orderly says as he pulls a small woman along behind him. She’s petite and kind-looking, blonde with huge blue eyes that shine with compassion and gentleness._

_“Hi,” he nods._

_“It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’m Prim.”_

_He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and stares down the hallway, ignoring the awkward silence as he and the nurse are left alone together._

_“Are you ready to go home, sir?” the nurse asks, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “Have a lot of people waiting for you back there?”_

_“No,” he barks the monosyllable._

_“Well, I’m so excited to see my sister. She’s a physical therapist, works with vets like yourself, and she’s the best person I’ve ever known. You’d like her.”_

_He ignores her and tunes out her chatter. He doesn’t want to hope for anything, and this girl’s incessant babbling feels like sunshine and optimism._

_“I don’t like anybody.”_

_She gives him a gentle smile that makes him want to smack her. “You will, sir. Someday you will.”_

_“Not likely.”_

_“I give it three months,” she says and then surveys him sharply. “You know what, maybe a year. Maybe just a little more.”_

_“Until what?”_

_“Until you like yourself again, and then, by extension, others around you. You might take a while.”_

_“Three months, huh?”_

_“Three months once or twice or a few times, but yeah. Just wait.”_

_And because Peeta has nothing better to do, he glances sideways at his nurse and decides he’s too tired to fight anymore. Instead, he chooses to believe her. Three months. A few times. He’s counting on it._


End file.
